Mr Darcy, Vampire
by witchybelle4u2
Summary: What if pride wasn't the only thing keeping Elizabeth and Darcy apart? What if Darcy and his dearest friend - and greatest foe - all harboured the same dark secret? Many thanks to my BRILLIANT betas, brainy, littledemonpixie and S.C.Mema, for all their hard work keeping my language in check! :)
1. Chapter 1

_This story came about as something of a dare and I have been struggling to keep the language in check so any comments and suggestions are very welcome. I also want to say "Thanks!" to my beta, littledemonpixie. :)_

Mr. Darcy, Vampire:

Chapter One:

It may be, as they say, a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. It is not, however, universally known that when such a man is also a vampire, he must, above all, be in want of blood. (It is not, of course, universally known that vampires exist, much less that they dare to inhabit the upper echelon of English society.)

Sadly, as the ever thwarted Mrs. Bennet could undoubtedly attest to, what one actually received was not necessarily what one needed. And it was almost never what one _wanted_. This disparity between what one wanted and what one received, Mr. Darcy was intimately familiar.

Having what he felt was the unfortunate luck to be_ both_ a vampire and an English gentleman in possession of a good fortune, Mr. Darcy quite often felt the burning disappointment of his wants and needs being at very definite odds. It seemed to him that he had felt it most keenly from the first moment he laid eyes on Miss Elizabeth Bennet the night of that ridiculous country ball.

From the first time his gaze landed upon her laughing face, he had wanted her – in every way imaginable. And, from that first moment, he knew that he needed to avoid her – for her sake, and for his. Yet he found it impossible to avoid that fine lady.

Darcy was drawn to Elizabeth's youth and vivacity like the proverbial moth to a flame. When it became obvious – almost immediately – that he did not have the willpower necessary to do the right thing, he had hoped that he might drive her away by making himself disagreeable. It had very nearly succeeded.

Unfortunately for them both, the more time Darcy spent in her company, the more difficult it became to maintain an attitude of insolence and disrespect. What he had come to feel for Miss Bennet during their visits together at Rosings was exactly the opposite. He had come to regard her very highly indeed.

When Mr. Collins brought news that Miss Bennet was too ill to join them for tea, his first instinct was to rush immediately to her side. Only Mrs. Collins's assurances that Miss Bennet was simply indisposed kept Darcy from acting the fool. He managed to remain with the company for exactly as long as good manners required and not a second longer.

Under the pretence of preparing for his imminent journey, Darcy excused himself. He did not retire to his rooms as he said he would but rather went immediately toward the Parsonage. Good sense only just stopped him from barging straight in. What possessed him? It was certainly folly to force his company on a lady who so clearly wanted to be alone.

Alone! Oh, the thoughts and emotions one little word could stir in a man! He envisioned her reclining on one of Mr. Collins's stiff yet perfectly appointed settees. She would be reading some novel, no doubt, or more likely, a letter from one of her many sisters.

Darcy imagined Miss Bennet dozing off, the letter slipping unnoticed from her fingers onto the floor. He pictured quietly letting himself into the house, stealing into the drawing room like a thief, advancing upon her sleeping form. He would lean over her – carefully, so as not to wake her – and place his lips upon her slender, white throat. Her sleeping mind would respond to his presence, making her chest heave and his name slip from her lips...

Hell and damnation!

He turned sharply and strode away from the house once more. That woman would undoubtedly be his ruin! Darcy attempted to gain mastery of his wayward thoughts. The attempt was in vain – Elizabeth Bennet remained the sole mistress of his thoughts, his mind, and indeed, his heart.

Yes, as surely as the dreaded vampirism claimed his body did Miss Bennet claim his heart. He, Darcy – lord of Pemberley and cursed monster of darkness – was in love with a woman who, according to all the laws of society, should be beneath his notice. And who, by the very laws of Nature and the Divine, should be far, far above his.

It was a match that could never be – but one that every fibre of his being demanded.

Even if he did not have their perspective fortunes to consider, marriage with Miss Bennet would incur the wrath of his very formidable aunt, Lady Catherine. The grand lady would _not _approve of such a match. Unlike her nephew, however, Lady Catherine was not the bloodsucking fiend some of her social inferiors might call her in private. Weather her fury, Darcy might, if he believed such a union would end in anything but tragedy.

But how in Heaven's name could it end in anything else! He struggled to control his bestial nature now, with yards of ground and a solid wall between them! If he were to take Miss Bennet to his bed, if he had her soft, luscious body spread beneath him, ripe for the -

No!

He was not such a monster that he would defile an innocent, honourable creature just to satisfy his own dark desires. This vow Darcy made in his mind only – his body would not, could not concede. Every inch of his flesh raged at him to claim Miss Bennet for his own and take all that she had to offer.

And his heart?

His heart was every bit as traitorous as his body. His heart, which had been claimed so thoroughly by Miss Bennet, demanded he likewise claim hers. His heart and body conspired to make Miss Bennet his own regardless of all his best intentions.

Fitzwilliam Darcy was a man (if he could make such bold use of the word) torn. The desire to have Elizabeth Bennet and the desire to save her from himself fought a desperate battle within his breast. They fought mercilessly, leaving Darcy, their poor battlefield, riddled with numerous, invisible scars that he would, he was certain, carry for the remainder of his days.

If anyone had happened to pass, they would have discerned no outward sign of the internal struggled taking place within Darcy. They might only have taken note of the far away look in his eyes or the uncertain step that carried him first toward the Parsonage, then away again. They would certainly know nothing of the anguish Darcy felt as he finally gave into the demands of his heart and body.

He _would_ have Elizabeth Bennet – even if it destroyed them both.

It was decided. He had fixed his resolve on a union – cursed though it may be – with Miss Elizabeth Bennet. All that remained was to obtain the lady's consent. Darcy strode purposefully toward the house once more, hoping against hope that Miss Bennet might save them both by rejecting his offer of marriage.


	2. Chapter 2

Mr. Darcy, Vampire

Chapter Two:

Once he had gained entrance to the Parsonage, Darcy allowed himself the briefest of moments to enjoy being out of the sun. He had only been infected with vampirism a few short years and already he was starting to feel the heavy lethargy that came with prolonged exposure to direct sunlight.

'_No! Not yet!' _

He had hoped for at least a decade or two before his affliction drove him into the darkness but it seemed it was not to be. At this rate, he would likely be forced to give up the sun before his fortieth birthday.

'_And this is the life you would have Miss Bennet live?'_

Darcy shoved the thought aside and strode into the drawing room before his conscious had time to talk him out of proposing to Miss Bennet. That lady exhibited a certain degree of surprise at seeing him. Clearly, she had been expecting someone else.

Jealousy erupted in his chest like a fire and threatened to consume him. Was she waiting for another man? Another suitor, perhaps? Darcy struggled to control the rage that overcame him at the thought of Miss Bennet with another man.

Darcy attempted – rather unsuccessfully – to reign his temper. He reminded himself that, despite the possessiveness he felt toward her, he had no claim over Miss Bennet; yet. Another few moments could see that change.

He hurriedly made his apologies for disturbing her to cover the awkward silence that stretched between them. She seemed in no hurry to fill the silence herself, he noted. Indeed, when she _did_ reply to his inquiries about her health and the health of her family, it was in a cool, clipped tone. Her manner was, in fact, almost impolite.

Having been so intent on mastering his own emotions, Darcy had failed to note the heightened state of Miss Bennet's. The lady was clearly agitated. She appeared to be struggling with some inner thought or emotion that made her restless. There were also spots of colour on her cheeks and her eyes appeared swollen and red. He suspected that she had recently been crying.

Darcy briefly wondered if his presence was the cause of Miss Bennet's agitation but he quickly dismissed the idea. Why should his presence affect her so? He did wonder, though, if perhaps now was not the best time to press his suit. After some deliberation, he decided – rather selfishly, he had to admit – that it simply could not wait. He was certain anticipation would eat him alive if he did not ask Miss Elizabeth Bennet for her hand. Immediately.

Eternal life, it seemed, had not graced Darcy with an abundance of patience.

Surprising both Elizabeth and himself, Darcy came forward and, taking both her hands in his, spoke earnestly of his feelings.

"In vain I have struggled," he told her. "It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you."

He then went on to make her an offer of marriage which, though less than eloquent, was most ardent. Then he waited.

Miss Bennet's reaction was not precisely what he had been expecting – and certainly not what he had hoped for! Darcy watched – with no little amount of trepidation – as a host of emotions played across Elizabeth's face. If he had expected to see joy at his declaration, he was sorely mistaken – and there was most assuredly no evidence of his feelings being reciprocated.

Silence descended, uncertainty hanging heavy in the air. Darcy, keenly aware that Elizabeth's delicate hands resting in his, and had to remind himself to breathe. To be this close to Elizabeth, to _touch_ her, and not _have_ her was the sweetest form of torture.

The waiting… That was a different torture altogether. Why did she not say something? Yes, no, perhaps – _anything_, he thought, would be preferable to strained silence. He was wrong. When Elizabeth did finally speak, Darcy found silence _was_, in fact,preferable to what she had to say.

Miss Bennet did not simply reject his proposal – she rejected it with a force that was almost physically staggering. Darcy dropped her hands numbly and recoiled a step, trying to distance himself from the hateful words she spoke.

He was stunned by the anger and animosity Elizabeth levelled at him. If there was any doubt on Darcy's part as to the reason for her anger – and her ultimate refusal – the next few moments were sufficient to dispel them.

Mr. Darcy fought to regain his composure which, at Elizabeth's scathing words, had taken a terrible blow. The animal that lived within him roared to life within him and threatened to devour him whole_. 'To hell with her objections!'_ it screamed. _'She belongs to you, take her!' _

He planted his feet firmly on the floor and clasped his hands tightly behind his back. His gums ached where his fangs elongated – much in the same way a certain other part of his anatomy similarly reacted. Each demanded that _their_ hunger be assuaged first, leaving Darcy to fight a losing battle against his own desires.

Despite the monster that dwelt within his soul, regardless of the cursed beast he had become that fateful night Wickham shared his unholy secret, he was, above all else, an English gentleman. This he reminded himself over and over as he forced himself to take one deep, steadying breath after another.

Second by agonising second, he reined his inner daemon back. As his canines began to recede, Darcy felt his control slowly return. Slowly – and though his hands still itched to touch Elizabeth – he lowered his hands to his sides and forced them to remain there. With control came the return of reason. Miss Bennet, he realised, had not only rejected him, she had also insulted his honour as a gentleman. His pride stung.

A small voice in the back of his mind attempted to remind him that this was exactly what he had hoped for: Elizabeth 's rejected saved them both from certain ruin.

So why did he suddenly feel as though he had been stripped bare in the street and publicly flogged?

Who was _she _to insult _his _honour?

He attempted – though perhaps less than successfully – to keep the indignation he felt from his voice as he said, "And _this_ is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting?"

Logically, Darcy knew that he should be counting his lucky stars that Elizabeth had the good sense to reject his proposal. He should beat a hasty retreat least she change her mind… But it seemed he could not make himself leave. Not yet. His needs as a man, and the desires of the monster within the man, might be held – albeit tenuously – in check but his pride as a gentleman demanded satisfaction.

"I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little endeavour at civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance."

The hurt of rejection made Darcy lash out, speaking before he had given thought to the consequences.

"Forgive me," he said recklessly. "It had not occurred to me that you might already have a suitor for your hand."

His voice was laced with condescension as he spoke, deliberately looking down his noise at her. "Someone more suited to your station… A farmer, perhaps? But what was I thinking? It matters not so long as your mother is relieved of the burden of marrying you off."

Darcy regretted the words almost the moment they left his lips. He did not need to see the colour rise to Elizabeth's cheeks or her hands clench into fists at her sides to know that he had crossed a line.

All Men – if they are wise – have a sense for when they have spoken words that a lady would not like to hear. Perhaps, if they were _more _wise, that sense would warn them _before _those words were spoken. Sadly for Mr. Darcy, it was too late. The words were spoken and could not be retracted. All he could do now was wait for the verbal tirade that Miss Bennet was surely to unleash upon him and know, without a doubt, that he deserved it.

It would appear that his gentlemanly pride had led him to behave in a less than gentleman-like manner.


	3. Chapter 3

Mr. Darcy, Vampire

Chapter Three:

Elizabeth was not graced with the patience that her father and dear sister, Jane, possessed. Her temper could be, at times, rather too short and her blood rather too quick to boil. In this way – and this way only – did Elizabeth Bennet take after her mother.

Unlike her mother, however, Elizabeth was usually able to rely on her dignity and intellect to save her from making a scene on those occasions when her temper threatened to get the better of her. Usually. This, she was forced to admit, was _not_ one of those occasions.

She had been astonished by Mr. Darcy's proposal. Astonished and, yes, a little please, despite herself. What woman could be completely unmoved by an offer of marriage from a man of such consequence? Certainly not she!

But then – even before he stooped to insulting her rank – she remembered that Mr. Darcy had been the one responsible for ruining, perhaps forever, the happiness of her most beloved sister. That alone prompted Elizabeth to reject his proposal.

Perhaps she did not reject him as kindly as she ought to have. It would not be right if Elizabeth, who was so quick to find fault in others, turned a blind eye to her own. Whether her anger was justified or not, it was _most_ unladylike to lash out as she had.

Elizabeth had been on the verge of offering Mr. Darcy her sincerest apologies when he suggested that her mother would be happy to marry her off to a farmer, so long as she was rid of her. Her temper flared.

"How dare you, sir!" she snapped, her ire rising to a point that could not be held silent. "Say what you will about me but I beg you to kindly keep a civil tongue in your mouth when speaking of my family!"

Mr. Darcy's countenance immediately adopted a look of the utmost contrition. He opened his mouth – perhaps to offer an apology? Elizabeth never knew for, in that moment, her wild temper seemed to get the best of her at last – that, or some mischievous sprite took temporary possession of her body. Indeed, she could not say _what_ made her strike Mr. Darcy, only that she felt as surprised by her action as he looked.

What was even more shocking – to Elizabeth, at least – was the fact that her palm never made contact with Mr. Darcy's cheek. His own hand darted up with a speed that she found startling. One moment his hand rested limply by his side and, the next, his fingers were wrapped around her wrist in a vice-like grip. He looked first at the place where their hands merged before raising his eyes to Elizabeth's face.

"Miss Bennet!" he said in a voice loaded with incredulity. "You would strike me?"

Elizabeth did not know how to respond; she could scarce believe it herself.

Darcy shook his head, a wry smile upon his lips.

"I must say that I cannot blame you," he told her. "My own behaviour was so reprehensible that it is no less than I deserve."

He had not yet released his grip on her wrist, though his hold had softened. His thumb stroked the sensitive flesh on the inside of her wrist.

Elizabeth wished that he would release her! It really was _most_ disconcerting. She tried to pull her hand free but Darcy refused to relinquish his hold on her.

"But," Mr. Darcy continued, "I must say that I never would have expected such behaviour from you! Lydia, perhaps," he muttered almost to himself, "But not _you_, Elizabeth."

Shame made Elizabeth's face flame. He was right, of course – behaviour such as she had exhibited was unworthy of her and, as he said, would have been more likely to have come from one of her younger sisters than herself. Fine behaviour for a woman of nearly one and twenty indeed!

She started to make her apologies but the words never crossed her lips. Mr. Darcy interrupted her.

"It would seem that we have both been guilty of disregarding the decorum required of us by our good breeding," he said. "We might as well throw it out the window entirely."

With that, he tugged sharply on her outstretched arm with a force that allowed no protest. Elizabeth was helpless against Mr. Darcy's superior strength; she tumbled into his arms with naught but a squeak of surprise.

He supported her weight with one arm while the other slipped around her waist.

"What say you, Miss Bennet?" he asked in a low, dangerous voice. "Shall we take impropriety to new heights?"

He did not allow her time to reply – which was just as well since Elizabeth doubted her ability to form a coherent reply. Her surprise was so complete that the most she could manage was a quick flutter of her eyelids before Mr. Darcy lips descended upon hers.

Darcy's kiss was nothing like the chaste kisses Elizabeth had, on rare occasion, fantasized about. It was hot, hungry, and drove all reason from her mind.

He nibbled her lower lip, wringing a sigh of both pleasure and surprise from her. Darcy took advantage, thrusting his tongue between her parted lips, taking the kiss deeper. Elizabeth, untried in such things, responded tentatively but eagerly, earning a low groan from Darcy.

Elizabeth was breathless when Darcy broke the kiss; her chest heaved and mind swam. She did not stop to consider the shame she would bring upon her family only because she _could_ not think, could only _feel_. Rational thought had been driven away by a tumult of sensations the likes of which she had never known.

Darcy did not release her but rather dropped his head to rain kisses along her jaw and throat. He nipped and teased her earlobe until she was certain she would never be able to view anything as innocent as an ear again without feeling terribly aroused.

Her fingers tangled in his dark curls as his mouth descended. His hand travelled upward as his lips travelled lower. He gripped her neck firmly and -

"Oh!"

Pain exploded in her throat. Elizabeth tried to push herself free from his hold but Darcy was not to be budged. His arm tightened around her waist, calling a painful halt to her struggles.

"Darcy! Please!"

Her pleads fell upon deaf ears. Darcy gave no indication that he heard her, only continued to... To... Oh, dear Lord in Heaven! Was he _sucking_ her neck? What did he mean by this?

Elizabeth's brain worked frantically, trying to make sense of an impossible situation. Oh, but her throat ached! It felt as though someone had stabbed her – exactly where Mr. Darcy's mouth was. Had he _bitten _her? What would possess him to do such a thing?

She continued to struggle but he was simply too powerful. At a loss, Elizabeth resorted to desperate measures: she sunk her nails into the flesh of his face as hard as possible and screamed.

Darcy, at long last, released his hold on her, his hands rising to cover the deep gouges her nails had left. Elizabeth fell in a heap on the floor. Her breaths came in short, panicked gasps.

Lowering his hands, Darcy looked down at the blood he saw there uncomprehendingly, as if he could not understand just how it had gotten there. A moment later, he turned those same wide, confused eyes on Elizabeth who gasped in horror. His eyes, usually the colour of dark chocolate, were a dark burgundy. Worse than that, though, was his _mouth_...

Darcy's mouth, which had so skilfully awakened Elizabeth to passion just moments ago was now streaked with her blood.


	4. Chapter 4

_Big thanks to S. and brainy for their beta work on this one! :)_

Mr. Darcy, Vampire

Chapter Four:

Elizabeth froze, seized by a terror so complete that it stole all the warmth from her body and set her limbs to trembling. She had thought many things of Mr. Darcy during the course of their acquaintance – some of them truly unkind – but she could never have imagined _this_ of him.

She raised one hand to press shaky fingers against the spot on her neck that still throbbed with a dull ache, surprised by the warm stickiness they found there. When she pulled her fingers away, Elizabeth was horrified to see that they were streaked with blood.

The same blood that now stained Darcy's lips.

_Her _blood.

Elizabeth's mind raced as it attempted – in vain – to make sense of what her eyes were seeing. Blood on his lips… Blood on her throat… Had he bitten her? It appeared so – but why? What purpose could it serve?

The incident replayed itself in her mind's eye; the memory of the heated kisses they had shared made her cheeks flame even as the memory of Darcy's attack made her blood run cold. Yes, she felt certain that he had bitten her. Bitten her and… She remembered her frantic struggles to free herself from his determined grip. He had resisted her attempts at first, his mouth latched onto her throat, not just biting but… Sucking?

It couldn't be. Elizabeth could scarce believe it; did not dare to trust her own memories. Mr. Darcy, _drinking her blood?_ What manner of man would do such a thing?

_Not man_, she thought.

Of one thing Elizabeth was certain: this… this _creature_, which had been held up as the very model of English society, was nothing more than a wolf in sheep's clothing. Look the part though he might, Fitzwilliam Darcy was _not_ a man – and certainly not a gentleman!

"What _are_ you?" she demanded, her chest heaving with the effort it took to inhale one laborious breath after another.

Darcy blinked away the confusion that clouded his features. Elizabeth stared, wide-eyed and disbelieving, and watched as the look of confusion he wore faded into realisation that was swiftly swept away by a tidal wave of self-loathing. He buried his face in his hands.

"My dear Elizabeth," he groaned, the words muffled by his hands, "what have I done?"

Irrational though it was, Elizabeth's first thought was to offer comfort to Darcy. The remorse in his voice was a cold fist 'round her heart. She longed to reach out, to tell him that everything was all right, truly, that no harm had been done. But, though her arms ached to hold him, fear – of what he had done, of what he might yet do – held her immobile.

"Mr. Darcy?" When Elizabeth spoke, her voice sounded weak and timid, even to her own ears. "Are you... well?"

She thought she heard him laugh but it was a choked, humourless sound. Darcy shook his head.

"No," he replied, raising his head at long last. "I am _not_ well – not well at all."

He met her frightened gaze with eyes the colour of dark chocolate. They were, Elizabeth thought, the saddest eyes she had ever seen. "I am very ill indeed," he told her.

Perhaps it was the remorse she saw in his eyes. Perhaps it was the dejected slump of his shoulders. Whatever the reason, Elizabeth did not doubt him. There was no doubt in her mind that Darcy spoke the truth when he told her that he was unwell.

Nonetheless, it did not stop her reaction – which was both violent and immediate – when, as if noticing Miss Bennet's position for the first time, Darcy took a step forward, extending his hand to offer her assistance in rising. As she dared not trust her legs to hold her weight, Elizabeth instead scuttled backward as she avoided his touch, using her hands and feet to propel herself until her shoulders slammed against the wall.

Darcy winced, his expression stricken as his hand dropped limply to his side. Retreating a few steps, he widened the distance between them.

"I cannot begin to imagine what you must be thinking," he said without looking at her, "now that you have seen me for the monster I really am."

Elizabeth cringed at his bitter use of the word _monster_. Had she not thought the very same thing herself, just moments before? Yet hearing the words spoken from Darcy's own lips made her feel ashamed.

No man who hated himself that much could ever truly be a monster.

"My actions have been so reprehensible that I know not where to even begin to beg your forgiveness."

Darcy dropped to his knees before her so abruptly that Elizabeth flinched. He caught and held her frightened gaze but did not attempt to draw any nearer.

"I do not offer my apologies because my actions cannot be forgiven," he told her. Regret softened his voice. "But believe me when I say that I am more sorry than you can ever know. I—"

Stopping abruptly, Darcy tilted his head to the side as though perceiving some sound, but it was far too faint for Elizabeth to hear. She strained to listen but could hear nothing over the pounding of her own heartbeat. Darcy could evidently hear something more – and what he heard made his movements frantic.

"I owe you an explanation, if naught else," he told her hurriedly. "But now is not the time, for I fear Mr. and Mrs. Collins will be upon us ere long."

Elizabeth could form no sensible reply; her mind was a whirling cloud of conflicting thoughts and emotions. Too much had occurred, and in too short a time. She could hardly reconcile the gentleman she saw now with the red-eyed daemon who, only moments ago, had been intent upon leeching the life's blood from her body.

She could scarcely breathe, much less make sense of the impossible situation in which she now found herself.

"Please, Elizabeth," Darcy implored, his voice earnest, "I must beg you not to speak of this to anyone."

His eyes burned with an intensity she could not name. "I ask you not for my sake but for the sake of my dear sister, Georgiana," he said. "She – sweet, innocent soul that she is – knows no part of this... Yet I fear it is she who would suffer worst of all were my secret be made public."

There was a real affection present in his tone when Darcy spoke of Georgiana. It made Eliza think of her own sisters. She would do anything to protect them – _anything_ – and did not doubt Mr. Darcy felt the same about his own. She dared not ask herself how far he would go to protect his sister; in truth, she thought she knew the answer already – and it terrified her.

It also made her eager to agree when Darcy said, "I have no right to ask this of you, but I ask that you please, _please_ – for the sake of my sister – keep what happened today between us. Will you promise me that, Elizabeth?"

"Yes," she said. What else _could _she say? "I promise."

Her voice was barely more than a whisper, but Elizabeth was proud, for it did not shake. If only the same could be said of her limbs!

Mr. Darcy's relief at her words was nearly palpable; his shoulders sagged, and he smiled. Elizabeth found herself wanting to return that smile, even though his lips were still stained red from her blood.

"I cannot thank you enough," he told her. Then, with many assurances that, though he could never make it right, he could – and _would_ – offer her an explanation, Darcy quitted the Parsonage in a great hurry, leaving Elizabeth in a rumpled heap on the drawing room floor.

No sooner had he gone than did she hear the clatter of Lady Catherine's carriage approaching the house.

_But how did he know they were come?_ she wondered dazedly.

He _couldn't_ have heard them from so great a distance... Could he? No _normal _man could have heard the carriage so soon – but there was no doubt in Eliza's mind that Mr. Darcy was no ordinary man.

Elizabeth had, on more than one occasion, thought that Mr. Darcy was quite unlike any other gentleman of her acquaintance. Now she was beginning to suspect that what had just passed was but a glimpse of how different he truly was.

Though the thought terrified her, it intrigued her, too.

But Elizabeth was not at liberty to pursue that particular thought at any length at the present moment. If she did not make haste, Charlotte and Mr. Collins would be upon her, and she was in no fit state for their company.

She hauled herself to her feet, surprised they had strength enough to hold her, Elizabeth hurried from the room, up the stairs, and into the room she'd been given where she promptly threw herself upon the bed. It was not long before her friend appeared at the door, making enquiries as to the state of her health. Lady Catherine, she was told, had been _most_ concerned for her welfare.

Elizabeth evaded her friend's well-meaning scrutiny as best she could, promising that she would be right as rain after a good rest. Charlotte's narrowed eyes told Elizabeth that the lie was not as convincing as she had hoped, but her friend did not press the issue. Bidding her a good night, Charlotte left. Muffled voices rose in conversation on the other side of the door and then slowly faded as they moved down the hallway.

She closed her eyes, trying her best to do as Charlotte had suggested and rest. They flew open almost at once when her mind was filled with an image of Mr. Darcy, his lips pulled back in an inhuman snarl. Rolling on to her side, Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut again, telling herself that she would not think about _that_ Darcy; she would think only of the _other_ Darcy, the one whose kiss ignited a fire within her veins that—

No, it would not do.

The blissful unconsciousness that sleep offered was not to be hers. Elizabeth ceased her futile attempts to rest and was on her feet once more, pacing the length of the small chamber with short, agitated steps.

Regardless of how many times she replayed the day's events in her mind, Elizabeth could make no better sense of what had transpired. Worse, she could not say which was a cause of greater confusion: the passion or the pain. One was as unknown to her as the other.

As for her own behaviour, Elizabeth could not have been more mortified! To act in so wanton a manner was shameful and unbecoming of a lady. How she wished she could say that she regretted it... Truth be told, Darcy had awakened something within her that she had not known to even exist. Now that she _did_ know, now that she'd had a taste of it, she could not say that she did not want more.

Her thoughts were drawn to her impetuous younger sisters. She thought of the way that Lydia and Kitty chased after the coattails of the officers stationed near their home. Could it be that they were in possession of some knowledge of the kind of intimacies between a man and a woman that Elizabeth, until today, had lacked?

The thought of the regiment stationed in Meryton could not but draw her thoughts to a certain soldier; yet, the face of Mr. Wickham, who Eliza had formerly given no small amount of consideration, would not long stay in her mind, for it was quickly replaced with an image of blood-stained lips and warm brown eyes filled with sorrow.

Oh, but she was conflicted!

Elizabeth sank into a chair that sat before the room's small dressing table. She was startled at first to find that she could not see her own reflection in the mirror that sat upon the table. Her reverie had been so great that it had blinded her to the passing of time; so lost in thought was she that she had not noticed until that moment that night had long since fallen.

She was not usually a squeamish person, but, for some reason she could not name, Elizabeth found the darkness unnerving. It was as though every shadow was filled with strange, unnatural forms that loomed, menacing, in every corner. Striking a match to chase the shadows away, Elizabeth gasped at the image that was thrown back at her in the flickering candlelight. She stared, wide eyed and pale, back at herself from the mirror's depths, mesmerised by the two angry red welts that marred her slim throat.


End file.
